Author: R. M. Dolin

Everything fades, which requires coming to terms withjust how hard it is to establish a new normal. Like lateharvest grapes turning in the sunwe’re all damaged goods.Decisions made in haste. Desperate to delineatethe fine line separating heaven from hell,the wise man culls what he no …

We were there when the statue crumbled.When humble people stood together and bledfor something better. We remember the Holodomor,the callous calculating way savages act in self interestand realize every nation is susceptible.The world turns on minor moments leaving us in aweat all those things we …

Feathers serendipitously float as afunction of gravity coupled with time whileboulders predictably drop insingle variable suddenness. All of life isrelative, including time, which is why inthe land of mañana even an hour candrag for days with the fatal flaw offeathers dancing on the timeless breathof …

Infinite are life’s roads,often past fields laid fallow in the sun.The quietness of sparrow. The softness ofcottonwood. How did we get here? Avalanches are born in unsuspecting screams.Gently nudging change untilgravity takes over. Breathing is not living.Fighting does not define heroic.We ignore whispers in wind …

Why does night encase emptiness as if we are one? Why does light beyond the edge of darkness tease at attainability?Who are these men? How did I get here? A heroic cowboy, a principled man ironically misplaced, a slave on the run; what do we …

Between truth and all those thingswe’re made to believe lays the destiny tied to ournature. In some it can be listening with a soft heart orcharging into matters partially informed andfully confident. Some are builders whileothers take. There are those who bend in acquiescence and …

No one can say for certain where a waterfall begins or when the consequences of revolution first cascade toward change. Even so, anyone paying attention knows government’s lie to their people. And in their lies we find seldom spoken truths no matter how hidden or …

It’s so hard having escaped the dealer of darkness only to be back in his hold. Death is an illusion, a poem of perfect pretend. The longing to be unafraid. To step one last time beyond the numbness that’s become normal. But even that requires …

Through the window of darkness where my soul no longer can be found. This is where you’ll find, my prelude to a touch. R. M. Dolin, 2015

The madness of May pushes against my soul with the same veracity Santa Annas press the past into a pretext for right now. And in the aftermath of madness, memories we simultaneously treasure and forge to forget, cascade forward in a recurring sense something ominous …